


Beside a River Clear

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Hand Feeding, M/M, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:05:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2510423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have escaped the heat of Paris for a week. It is not so unusual: two gentlemen spending a week in the countryside, walking all day beneath trees, exploring hills and valleys and following the sound of distant waterfalls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beside a River Clear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chanvreries](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=chanvreries), [icicaille](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille/gifts).



> For chanvreries' prompt "Javert/Valjean: they embark on a roadtrip/vacation together."

The sun is high in the sky when they stop beside a small river. All day they have walked side by side, companions in silence and contentment. 

It is a thing still new, almost raw, like skin grown over a recent wound that itches, and which they cannot help but probe with glances, silent touches, and sparse words at the beauty that surrounds them. And yet, this sharing of experience and enjoyment is a greater wonder to them both than the murmur of a clear, cold brook or the waving bluebells in a shady grove.

They have escaped the heat of Paris for a week. It is not so unusual: two gentlemen spending a week in the countryside, walking all day beneath trees, exploring hills and valleys and following the sound of distant waterfalls; and yet, this area is too far from the fashionable places where a younger man may flaunt the grisette on his arm, or where an officer may proudly parade down a street in his uniform and draw admiring glances.

Here, the inn where they have chosen to spend the week is small, their chamber is simple, but the land is green and rich, and the inn-keeper's wife makes her own cheese and bakes an excellent soft, white bread. They need little more than that and the cool breeze that accompanies them on their walks.

When they decide to rest at last, they do so beside a stream. They are high up in the hills. For hours they have heard no sound but that of the water and the swaying leaves; when their hands touch, there is no reason to guard their smile; when Valjean's lips meet his, Javert kisses back firmly.

He spreads the food they have carried with them: white bread, yellow cheese, a small crock of rillettes, a bottle of a dark, fruity wine. Javert has learned many things during the past months. He has watched a man who half starved himself to death buy small cakes, if Javert can force himself to voice his enjoyment of them. Likewise, a word of praise to the inn-keeper's wife, and Valjean, ever thoughtful of another's comfort, had her ready a small basket for them to take with them in the morning.

It is not so hard now, Javert finds, to bend a little, to give voice to enjoyment, if that in turn means that he can cut white bread, spread rich goose fat, hand Valjean small slices of bread and cheese and meat and find his own enjoyment of the good food dwarfed by seeing Valjean's own, hesitant pleasure.

There is pleasure in seeing Valjean's tongue kiss some of the white goose fat from his finger, pleasure in carding his own fingers through soft, white hair and kissing a wine stain from his lips. 

He feeds Valjean bite after bite. Valjean, eyes soft and dark, takes every offered morsel, his lips warm and careful as they brush his fingers. Javert thinks that he might never need more than this breathless moment: Valjean's tongue pink and hot as it carefully curls around a finger, clearing away crumbs, and then Javert offers him another bite of cheese, and Valjean takes that too, their eyes meeting as the tip of Valjean's tongue brushes his finger again. The heat of him runs through him like a shock. 

Both of them pretend to ignore the strange tension that lingers in the air when they indulge this. Perhaps, Javert thinks as he presses the pad of one finger to where another crumb clings to Valjean's warm lips, perhaps, by now, Valjean would eat all they have brought, unquestioning, and aiming for Javert's pleasure rather than his own enjoyment of the food. But this way, when he carefully offers bite after bite, and watches Valjean lean forward to eat what he is offered without protest, to linger even when Javert's fingers are stained by juice or fat or sugar to clean them with his lips and tongue, careful and methodical and nearly shy in this thing when they have shared their bodies without shyness already, like this he can see Valjean's enjoyment, and certainly that is reason enough to keep these strange, vulnerable moments.

The sun is warm on their backs. There is a gentle breeze that brings them the scent of flowers and moss and clear water. They wash their hands in the stream later; Valjean laughs in quiet surprise when Javert presses his cold hand to his nape, and where before, Valjean had spoken a prayer of gratitude for the food, now Javert speaks his own silent prayer with the press of his lips, kissing Valjean next to this stream, living for nothing but this sweetness for long, long, lazy moments: the taste of wine on Valjean's lips, the touch of Valjean's hand in his own hair, the soft sounds of their shared breathing all that can be heard over the gentle murmur of the water.

Soon, they will return. Soon, they will have to go home to the narrow streets of Paris, to the strangers in the streets, to the family that awaits Valjean.

But for now, they have nothing but each other, alone beneath a sky of endless blue, and hills and forest stretching before them. And if they stop every now and then to clasp hands beneath an oak, to share sips of cool water from a spring, and kisses to warm their cold lips afterward, then there are no witnesses to such small sins but the curious eyes of finch and thrush, and Javert thinks that he will gladly pay further penance for such sins by writing new prayers of gratitude with his lips on warm skin later.


End file.
